Bad News
by hiddenhibernian
Summary: Things did get better after the war, but not for everyone – to the victor, the spoils... Rita Skeeter knows what it's like to be one of the losers, but she can still ferret out a story.


**Susannah_wilde and** **PotterheadAna02** **, thank you very much for being my betas for this with such short notice – you did a fantastic job! This story was written for the HP Dark Arts community on LiveJournal, for the 2015 Horrorfest.**

* * *

The bright colours of Diagon Alley seemed to dim as she passed beneath the arch. Within a few feet, the grubbiness and faint smell of something unpleasant crowded out the pleasant spring air. She pulled at her robes to keep them away from the grime on the ground, but it was too late; something vividly green got stuck to the hem and refused to be dislodged.

The woman waiting for her in the seedy pub looked like any speck of colour had been washed out of her long ago. Rita had seen people looking better when they were released from Azkaban. It wasn't hard to pick her out among the drinkers; she was the only other woman there.

"Clar-"

"No names!" the woman whispered so angrily it attracted far more attention that Rita's low voice had, but then no one had ever accused Clarissa Selwyn of being discreet.

"I'll call you Jane, then. Would you like a drink?" Rita would, and she eyed the dusty bottles behind the bar with suspicion. There was no telling what they'd serve you in a place like this; it probably paid to order something transparent. "Double vodka, please. And – " But 'Jane' didn't want anything.

Even after they'd settled in a murky booth, hidden from prying eyes unless they could see through solid grime, Clarissa seemed on tenterhooks.

Rita knocked back her vodka and put it down with a little hiccup. "Ah. Better out than in, eh?"

Clarissa fiddled with her cuffs. It was obvious that her robes had seen better days. A hint of lace peeped out from underneath the sleeve; elf-made, no doubt. It was yellowing now, but the intricate pattern was still there.

"Have you changed your mind?" Rita always found it more efficient to tackle reluctant sources head-on – at least half the time, being offered the choice seemed to make their minds up for them.

"No. I'm just wondering... Is it safe here?" No one had come or gone since Rita had entered the pub, but Clarissa was still glancing at the door every thirty seconds.

"Listen, love, you picked this place. I haven't got all day, you know." Well, she did, but Clarissa didn't need to know that. There were better places to spend an afternoon than this dump.

"I see. I must... I'll simply have to trust you then, won't I?" Clarissa fiddled some more. "It is – the thing is, I've been warned not to talk, but nothing seems to be happening. Every time I go to the Ministry, they tell me my case is still under review. Then I saw _this._ " She pulled her hand out of her pocket, unrolling a carefully preserved newspaper cutting.

Rita didn't notice that Clarissa had moved closer, to block out the non-existent spectators' view of her treasure, until she noticed they were almost sitting on top of each other. She discreetly pulled her own chair away a little as she inspected the proffered article with professional interest.

"Lavender Brown – she's getting a lot of gigs now, don't know what the editors see in her. Can't spot a decent story to save her life, it's all me-me-me. Look, she starts: ' _When my friends told me...'_ No eye for a decent hook."

Clarissa stared back at her from an abyss of despair, and Rita was recalled to the matter at hand.

"Ahem. ' _Infertility nightmare'._ I see..." She skimmed through the article. " _Happily, little Lily has now found a new home'..._ "

"She's not called _Lily._ " For a moment Clarissa's desperation was mingled with disgust; Lily was far too common a name for the Selwyns. "Her name is Arabella, and she's got a home with me!"

Rita looked away – it was almost indecent, the way Clarissa looked like a wounded animal. Yet, she continued her story.

"They came to take her just after the trial. Can you imagine, I was almost happy they'd come? I thought it would give me a chance to get back on my feet, find a proper home for her. We were staying in a basement beneath Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. It was damp, and there were rats..." Clarissa shook her head at her own stupidity. "They asked me to sign something, about emergency care – that was all it said. I'm an educated woman, I wouldn't sign anything I didn't understand."

For a moment she looked different, sharper and more confident. Perhaps that's what she'd been like when she'd been part of the wizarding elite, the celebrated Miss Rosier who'd married one of the Dark Lord's favourites.

"But – " The tired wisp of a woman was back, defeat and despair tainting her voice. "I haven't been allowed to see her since. They're saying I'm not in a position to take care of her. Like there's a chance it might change. But look here."

Her stubby, chewed-up fingernail pointed to the middle section of the article: _'Harry and Ginny Potter have formally adopted little Lily, in an inspiring display of family values...'_

"She really shouldn't try to pull people's heartstrings – she hasn't a clue how to do it properly... Sorry." Rita noticed Clarissa's expression. "I see. Yes, that does sound quite definite."

"I saw them once. They've even changed the colour of her hair to make her look more like _them_. She used to be blonde, like me – " Clarissa pulled a battered photo out of her scruffy handbag, with what recognisably was the same little girl but younger. It took Rita a moment to realise it was another newspaper clipping, this time with the article carefully removed leaving only the picture.

"But everyone knows she's adopted, what's the point?"

"Because they're making her theirs, and she's mine!" If Ginny Potter had been forced to fight Clarissa Selwyn there and then for her daughter, Rita wouldn't have dared to predict the outcome. But it would never happen, would it?

"It's the _Potters_. You're never going to get her back," she said, as kindly as she was able to. "I'm telling you that for your own sake, you know. Better people than you have gone up against the Boy-Who-Conquered and lost. And I don't mean your bloody Dark Lord, either."

Clarissa was staring at the two pictures, tracing her daughter's waving hand with infinite tenderness. "I was hoping you'd write about it so people would find out. So they'd know the truth," she whispered.

"Sorry, love. No editor in Britain would touch a story like that with a bargepole. People don't want to know, see? We're having our Happily Ever After." Rita turned her glass of vodka almost upside-down, hoping against hope some drops had escaped her attention previously. "Things are better now. Joe Bloggs doesn't want to be reminded they aren't better for everyone."

"But – " Clarissa said, but Rita cut her off ruthlessly. One of the drawbacks of journalism was that once you got people talking, they didn't want to stop. If you didn't want to spend the rest of your life listening to people's life stories, you learnt how make then shut up once you got what you wanted.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry," Rita amended. It wasn't often she said that and meant it, but today it was actually true. "There's nothing I can do for you. Nothing anyone can do, considering who you're up against." Some people may have believed Potter had no idea how his precious daughter had been acquired, but Rita wasn't one of them. She'd suffered enough from being on the bad side of the Chosen One and his little friends to see his true colours.

It took a little work to extract herself. She'd almost managed to make her way out of the booth, away from Clarissa's plaintive refusals to believe that Rita was as powerless as she was, when she fumbled and dropped her Quick-Quotes Quill on the floor. It got stuck and she had to pull it off the sticky substance no one had bothered to clean up. New quills were expensive, though, so she bore with Clarissa another five minutes.

Finally she was free, heading towards the Leaky Cauldron with determined steps. It had started to rain, but she didn't mind. She would soon be out of it. Not at the Leaky – too many people she'd written about there, and the drinks were expensive. No, Rita was heading to Muggle London, to a cosy little pub where you could get a double vodka for less than a Muggle fiver and no one would notice if she got little bit wobbly.

She'd write up her interview notes first, though. No one would buy this interview, she'd known that even before she'd agreed to it, but she'd still gone. It wasn't to pretend she was still a journalist, with a byline and a regular salary. Rita had never been precious about her writing, like some of her colleagues.

She wrapped her hood closer around her tell-tale glasses as she approached the Leaky, preparing to slip through without attracting attention.

Perhaps that was the reason; she knew what it was like to be invisible, now. It seemed fitting that she'd listen to the stories that would otherwise be untold, because they didn't fit in this brave new world either.

hr

Clarissa' story kept niggling at her. There was something familiar about it, something Rita couldn't put her finger on that drove her to bribe her way into the archives of the _Daily Prophet_. It wasn't very hard to get in – Ernie, the security guard, usually let familiar faces in if they slipped him a few Galleons.

Rita knew her way around, of course, but it still took her the better part of a day to sift through the leather-bound volumes with years and years' worth of newspapers.

Ernie had to cough meaningfully and dangle his keys to rouse her at the end of the day. Rita hastily scrambled for her quill and notebook, and made a token effort to tidy up. She stumbled out into Diagon Alley without noticing the rain, and it was more habit than conscious effort that made her pull her hood up as she approached the Leaky Cauldron.

She made it to her usual Muggle pub, and for once she was thankful that the racket from the television made it almost impossible to think.

Arabella Selwyn wasn't the first child to disappear and be found in a new home after the war. Magic children had always been a valuable commodity – the Muggle stories about faeries stealing children had a grain of truth in them – but she hadn't expected the new regime to permit it. Yet, there was at least three high-profile adoptions in recent years. As good news-stories went it was hard to beat orphans from the war finding new homes, and Rita was willing to bet there were more cases that had been kept out of the public eye.

It was more difficult to piece together the other side. Not all parents were as forthcoming as Clarissa, who'd actually sought her out. There were still hints for those who knew where to look: a vagrant arrested for creating a public disturbance, ranting and raving about elves stealing her baby. A round-up of the surviving Death Eaters, the _Prophet's_ 'Where are they now?' war anniversary spread, which featured suspiciously few children even when there was a record of them from before the war.

And the most convincing piece of evidence: the changing appearance of a number of children, with blonde hair morphing to red over the years, or blue eyes slowly turning green.

Rita had no doubt she could find more evidence, more stories, if she started digging. She had an instinct for those things, and she knew there would be more Clarissas among the tenements of Knockturn Alley.

What was the point, though? The Aurors were hardly an option, and she couldn't think of anyone else who'd be willing to listen. She knew only too well what could happen to those who insisted on telling stories no one wanted to hear.

There was nothing she could do, she decided over her third double vodka. Nothing, except to remember that the winners took everything they wanted, whether it was theirs or not.


End file.
